


Oh Glory; I'm a Believer

by mugsandpugs



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, And Pretty Romantic, Friends to Lovers, Hanbrough, Homophobia, M/M, Racism, Rating May Change, angsty, but also fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-25 20:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12540828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: Five years after the Derry murders of 1989, Mike Hanlon and Bill Denbrough are the only Losers left in Maine. The only ones left who stillRemember. They attend the University of Bangor together by day and haunt the Derry library by night.Mike knows that this cannot last forever. Sooner or later, Bill will leave, too.Incomplete and Discontinued





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been talking about writing this for ages, and now I've finally started it!
> 
> A few notes on this AU: 1. Like in the novel, Mike's mother is still alive, and his father died of cancer when he was fifteen. 2. UNlike the novel, this story is set in 1994. The boys are 18/19. (Also, obviously, Bill's family stays in Derry.) 3. Mike and his mother are devout Baptists.
> 
> Rating may change later in the story, depending on how graphic it gets.
> 
> Title from [[this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioxjCVvtFNk)] song.

* * *

**We went deep together.**  
**We went into the black together.**  
**Would we come out of the black if we went in a second time?**  
**I don't think so.**  
**Please God I don't have to call them.**  
**Please God.**  


**\- Mike Hanlon, Stephen King's _IT_ **

* * *

**November 1994**

Derry was a small town, a snowglobe world all its own trapped under a dome of glass. (A feeding trough for tired, hungry things.) For many decades it remained quite insular; hostile to newcomers and resistant to change. A tiny Garden of Eden where knowledge of the outside world was unwelcome...

But even Derry couldn't fight against the growing power of the internet, not forever. 

"I thought I'd find you back here." 

Mike was so focused on the manuals he poured over that he barely heard the door to the private study room open, but the chill air that touched him did cause him to shiver and bring his denim jacket closer around himself. A two-pack of Styrofoam coffee cups being sat next to his manual caught his attention, though. 

"Earth to Mikey-boy," Bill's warm, slow voice called, and Mike heard the smile on his lips even before he looked up to see it. Bill always spoke slowly and softly- saying the words in his mind, sometimes in French, before he said them aloud in English. It'd done wonders for his stutter. 

Mike smiled back at his childhood friend. "Hey, it's you! Nobody's called me 'Mikey-boy' since..." 

Since Richie Tozier, the last of their friends still remaining in Derry, had moved to the west coast with his parents and gradually began to forget about them, same as all the rest of the Losers. That had been a year and a half ago. 

For a moment, Bill's smile faded to something sad, wistful. Mike regretted his words immediately. 

"How was school?!" he asked, deliberately brightening his voice. He and Bill both attended the University of Bangor, but Bill was a full-time student while Mike, only part-time. The rest of Mike's time was spent doing his paid internship with Derry's public library and, in his spare time, attempting to teach himself computer programming with manuals he'd special-ordered from Baltimore. _'The world is going digital, Michael. It's best if you adapt with it.'_ His mother's sage advice was always practical. 

Bill eased himself into the chair across the study-room table from Mike and helped himself to one of the coffees he'd bought, ripping a pink sugar packet with his teeth and watching the granules dissolve in the steam. "School was good," he replied. "My creative writing teacher is a t-tool, though." 

Mike smiled and reached for his own coffee. Bill had added creamer to it already, but no sugar; just how Mike preferred it. Bill had been complaining about this particular teacher for weeks, but stubbornly refused to drop the class. "I bet you could teach the class better than they could." 

Bill snorted dismissively, but he wasn't able to stop the warm light the compliment brought to his cornflower eyes. After a moment of quiet, he reached into his bag to pull out a textbook, a highlighter, and a half-used spiral notebook, settling comfortably into his homework. 

Silence between him and Bill was never an uncomfortable or lonely element. It was a silence of two friends who'd been through hell and back together, and came out on the other side of it fire-forged and iron strong with a trust that couldn't be broken and a love that would never tarnish. 

Mike returned his attentions to his own notes about programming and found that his concentration was boosted, both by the coffee and by Bill's presence. He understood the material better, thought he might be able to put it to practical use on the library's one computer the next time he got the chance. 

Forty-five minutes into their respective study sessions, both young men were alerted by a second knock on the door, this one delivered by the abrupt and purposeful knuckles of one Sally Jenson, head of pages. "Mike," she called, and then noticed the second body in the room. "Oh... hi, Bill." 

It was obvious, Mike thought, the way her cheeks pinked, the way she held herself a little taller, that she found Bill attractive. Unfortunately for both of them, Bill never seemed to notice the effect he had on other people. "Hey, Sal." He kept reading his notes without looking up; took a sip of his coffee, turned a page. 

"Mike," she turned her lightly-disappointed gaze back to her newest intern. "It's time to start closing up." 

"Of course!" he smiled at her, brightly, as though to make up for Bill's indifference. He knew he, himself, wasn't a bad-looking guy, especially when he smiled. When Mike smiled, his dimples popped and his straight white teeth had a way of making people smile back, which she did. "Lead the way." 

He automatically squeezed Bill's shoulder as he passed through the door next to Sally, hardly noticing the way Bill leaned into his hand, his shaggy, fair hair brushing Mike's wrist for just a moment as he did. His eyes never once left his book. 

Mike and Sally went through the routine, kindly reminding patrons it was almost time to leave, picking up some trash around the tables, closing and locking the study rooms after pushing some of the more expensive equipment inside. Little by little, the Derry library prepared to rest for the night. 

A little girl with curly red hair that reminded Mike fondly of Beverly Marsh's was struggling to put some things back on a high shelf and, glancing at her mother wrangling two other freckle-faced kids into jackets and boots, offered to hold her up to more efficiently do the job. 

He felt eyes on his back when he hefted her small weight up to the highest shelf, holding her tirelessly as she solemnly arranged the books, then praised her. "Good job. Maybe one day, you'll be a librarian yourself." 

She giggled, pleased by the idea, and skipped off to her mother when he once again set her down. 

"You're good with kids," Sally remarked, waving at the family as they left the library. "Do you want to be a father someday?" 

Michael considered as he walked with her to the bathrooms; she cleaned the girls' room, restocking the paper towels and dropping cleaner tablets into the toilets, and he did the same in the boys' room. The truth was, he didn't know if he could ever consider parenthood, not after being exposed full-force to what could happen to children in a sewer. The idea made him shiver a little. 

"I don't think fatherhood is written in my stars," he answered. "I do like kids, though." 

The last room they locked up was the smallest of the study rooms, the one Bill was still working diligently inside. This time, it was Mike's turn to struggle and get his attention- clearly, the two of them both got too wrapped up in their work. 

"Hey," Mike called, and grinned. "Earth to Billy-boy." 

Bill raised his eyebrows and made a face at him. Mike's grin only grew wider. "It's time to go." 

The three of them walked out together, with Sally locking the double entrance doors with a large key on a carabineer. Darkness had fallen, though it wasn't very late: soon, Derry would be experiencing its first snowfall of the season. They walked her to her car, waved her off, then both climbed into the second-hand Ford, older than them both, that Bill had bought for himself on his seventeenth birthday. 

"Ooh, boy." Mike vigorously rubbed his chapped hands together and shifted on the cracked leather passengers' seat as Bill flicked the heat on. "It's colder than a witch's tit in here." 

Bill smirked, bracing a hand on the back of Mike's headrest as he twisted in his seat and carefully backed out on the main road. "Your mom working tonight?" he asked, his mouth close to Mike's ear as he maneuvered the bulky vehicle. 

Jessica Hanlon worked two jobs- three, if you counted the clothing repairs she sometimes offered the neighbors. She also waitressed at Pete's Oceanside Resort and cleaned rooms at the Derry Inn. This, coupled with Mike's small paycheck and the money they were still receiving from having sold William Hanlon's farm to pay for his chemo treatments and funeral all those years ago, managed to pay for their two-bedroom apartment on Lower Main. 

"She should have just gotten off work, actually," Mike mused. "Want to stay over for dinner? It's probably just potatoes again, but-" 

But plain baked potatoes eaten in Mike Hanlon's tiny apartment was still preferable to returning to the cold emptiness of Bill's sprawling home with parents who barely remembered they had a son- and once had had two. 

Bill sighed. "I can't tonight. I have to go back to Bangor later and pick dad up from the airport." 

Mike's stomach clenched in an unhappy knot. Mr. Denbrough had been applying for different out-of-state jobs for about a year now. He'd seen this before as all his friends, one by one, left him behind. _Soon you'll be all alone, Mikey-boy._

If Bill moved away with his parents, if he left Maine, then soon the strange cloud of forgetfulness would overwhelm him as it had all the others. And then... and then Mike would be the only one left in the world who recalled the events that took place in the summer of 1989. 

He didn't think he could bare that particular loneliness. _Don't you leave me, Big Bill Denbrough. Don't you make me be the lighthouse to bring all the ships back home by myself._

Well. Aside from Henry Bowers, of course. Mike had no doubt that Henry, locked in his padded room on Juniper Hill for the dozens of murders he hadn't committed as well as the one he _had,_ remembered that summer quite well. 

As Bill drove, the silence began to eat Mike alive. This wasn't one of their normal, comfortable silences; this was a different beast altogether. A silence of a loss that hadn't happened yet; of inevitability. It grew and grew until Mike began to sweat. Finally, he could bear it no longer. 

"Bill... if your parents move... you shouldn't go with them," he said, and wished there was enough room on the seat to bunch his knees up under his chin. "You need to finish school, right?" 

Bill turned to look at him with those true-blue X-ray eyes, and Mike knew he was seeing right through him, seeing to that sore, secret place inside him that selfishly whispered: _please... for me..._

"Where would I go?" Bill asked. "You know I don't have any money on my own." 

"Stay with us," Mike replied immediately, the words tumbling out one right after the other. "Mom wouldn't say no. She loves you. She might make you start going to church, but..." 

Bill, ever the careful driver, pulled onto the shoulder of the road. There they sat quietly for a moment, the windows fogging at the edges from the warm bodies within contrasting with the bitter chill outside. Thanksgiving was coming, soon; Mike's favorite holiday. Usually Bill would show up to the Hanlon's table while Mike's family drove in from upstate, casserole dishes bulging, and... 

Bill reached to cup Mike's face in his large hand, the pad of his thumb pressing into Mike's dimple; a perfect fit. Mike closed his eyes, tilting his face into that soft, warm hold. Big Bill had a Way about him. A charismatic magnetism. He'd become pretty popular at school as his stutter faded and the Bowers gang were no longer around to drag them down every time they put themselves out there. 

Mike had been no slouch himself; his football career had lead to scholarships that made his college classes possible, but he'd never shone the way Bill did. People _liked_ Mike. People _loved_ Bill. 

Mike loved Bill, too. 

"Oh, M-Mike," Bill sighed, sounding terribly fatigued. So he could sense an end on their horizon, too, then. 

They stayed like that for a heartbeat or an eternity, until a passing car's headlights jolted them apart, reminded them that boys- even lifelong friends- didn't touch each other like that, not in a place like Derry. Mike's heart picked up a wild rate, punching his ribs, and then he did feel a little afraid. What had just happened?!

Mike's heart didn't stop racing once as Bill drove him all the way to his apartment complex and idled just outside. He wondered if Bill's heart had reacted as strongly, then dismissed the thought. 

"G'night, Mike," Bill said, not looking at him. "See you tomorrow." 

"Yeah. Yeah, see you tomorrow." Dazedly, Mike unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the truck, climbing the rickety staircase to his second-story apartment where the lights inside glowed like round gold coins through the window. As always, Bill waited until Mike had unlocked his door, let himself inside, and shut the door again before he drove off; making sure Mike got into his apartment safely. 

Mike breathed in the scents of home, standing under his mother's hand-painted "God Is Great!" archway, where she'd hung photos of different family members, William Hanlon smack-dab in the center. 

Mike looked into his father's eyes, wishing for the thousandth time that he was still with them, that he could talk to the only adult he'd met who had also seen IT. Maybe his father would have an answer for these strange things he was feeling now, too.

"Is that you, baby?" his mother's voice carried in from the kitchen, where she was hand-washing some dishes and watching the news on her portable television. 

Normally, Mike would have responded with something playful, like, _'No, it's the boogeyman!'_ for the sheer amusement of hearing her scolding him, or even playing along. Today, all he said was, "It's me, mom." 

"Well, go wash up and eat your dinner, then. How was your day?" 

Their apartment was so small that he could easily continue to converse with her as he stepped into the bathroom, washed his hands with an orange bar of soap, then retreated to his tidy bedroom to hang up his jacket and put his shoes away. 

A salted potato, split down the middle with fluffy insides spilling out over wrinkly skin, awaited him on the kitchen counter alongside a tall glass of milk. He kissed his mother's cheek in thanks and sat to eat, watching the news with her as she dried her hands and began preparation on tomorrow's dinner. They discussed the highlights of their days during commercial breaks, and when she finished setting a pan of bread aside to rise, she declared herself "tired enough to be the next Rip Van Winkle" and retreated to her room for the night. 

Then Mike was alone with the ticking of the clock and his own muddled thoughts. His mind kept returning, again and again, to Bill's sad face; to the thumb he'd pressed into Mike's cheek. 

_If he leaves, it'll break my heart,_ Mike realized, dazed. He'd cried for each friend that had left, and then forgotten, him. But if Bill left? _Bill?!_

The thoughts followed him like shadows as he brushed his teeth, changed into pajamas, did his nightly fifty crunches/fifty pushups/meditative stretching, murmured a quick prayer, and climbed into bed. 

Normally, when his thoughts were too full for sleeping, he would instead return to the kitchen to call Bill on the landline phone, but Bill was driving all the way to Bangor airport and back; he'd be gone for hours yet. 

Mike had other friends, of course; guys from the football team, Carol Bowie and Amy Hawkins, whom he'd briefly dated and still remained friends with. But nobody that came even close to his friendship with Bill. Calling them in the middle of the night to talk about confusing, vague feelings of unease would only warrant laughing and suggestions of different substances to imbibe for calmness and serenity. No, they wouldn't understand at all. 

Switching his bedside lamp back on, Mike got out his programming notes and read them over until the tiny numbers swayed and swam before his tired eyes, and then he was finally able to sleep. 

In his dreams, he found himself standing alongside a lake- dark as pitch and running fast. 

He looked around, dismayed to be so alone in such an eerie, brackish-smelling place, and his heart sank in relief as he realized that he wasn't alone after all! He waved, calling, to Bill on the other side of the bank. 

"Creepy place, huh?" he called, his voice echoing several times over the vast stretch of racing water. 

It _was_ creepy; nothing but flat ground and dividing river and starless black sky. There wasn't so much as a single tree or rock to break up the monotony. 

Bill slowly turned his way, and Mike realized, face heating, that he was naked. He stood tall, taller than Mike, but not so broad; his skin unmarred and moon-pale. He was beautiful, but his eyes were cold. 

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice a frosty politeness usually reserved for strangers that he didn't think much of. " _Who_ are you?" 

Michael woke in a feverish sweat sometime just after dawn, and did not sleep again that night, chilled to the very bone.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

**"The Losers," Mike Hanlon said softly.**  
**"The Losers," Bill finished.**  
**Their glasses touched. They drank.**

**\- Stephen King's _IT_ **

* * *

On the days they both had school- Tuesdays and Thursdays- Bill came to pick Mike up. Though Mike often fussed that it was unnecessary, that Bill's first class didn't start until nine, he never once complained at having to wake at six to get Mike in time for his 7am history lecture. 

"Hey, Mrs. H," he greeted Jessica Hanlon, and she smiled wide as she opened the front door to let him in. She was wearing her housekeeping uniform, but it was dirty at the hem and one elbow, and she smelled slightly of bleach, which indicated that she'd just gotten back from her own overnight shift. 

"Well hi, sweetie, come on in; Mike's still getting ready." He was touched when she still offered him breakfast, despite the exhaustion she must be feeling: "Want me to scramble you up an egg or two?" 

"No, but thank you. T-truly." He did accept the cup of coffee she poured him from the half-full coffeepot, however. 

Mike peeked around the corner, shirtless and damp from the shower, and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, Bill, I slept in. Just give me a minute...?" 

"Take your time." Mike had really kept in shape after graduation, even despite the injury he'd suffered on the football field. Bill didn't know how he found time to do it- Bill himself was too fond of sweets to truly be in shape. He admired Mike's stomach muscles. 

He made small-talk with Jessica as Mike hurriedly got ready, then gulped the last of his coffee when the teenager emerged from his room. 

Mike plucked the empty mug from Bill's hand and deposited it into the dishwasher within the same smooth motion that he kissed his mother's cheek. 

She cupped his face fondly in her small hand and smiled at him, and Bill looked away, annoyed with himself for being jealous of their relationship- he'd never managed to reconnect with his own parents after Georgie's death (not that they much remembered their dead son), but he was too old to still care about that stuff. Right? 

"Bye, boys," Jessica waved as they left for the day. "Walk with God." 

"Bye, mom." 

"Bye, Mrs. H." 

Mike startled when Bill tossed the truck's keys his way, but good reflexes meant he didn't fumble the catch. "Am I driving?" he asked. 

"Looks that way." Bill grinned. Mike had passed his written permit test with flying colors, but hadn't had much opportunity to practice the real thing. His grin was wide when he slid into the drivers' seat and adjusted it and the rearview mirror for his shorter body. 

The interior of the pickup always smelled- not unpleasantly- of coffee (Bill, the addict) and faint cherry tobacco (the previous owner). The sketchy radio was, as usual, tuned to the oldies rock station, and Mike sighed contentedly when turning the key in the ignition brought Little Richard to their ears. 

"Richie's favorite," Bill smiled wistfully. 

"I miss that crazy bastard." 

"Me, too." Bill drummed his fingers on the armrest, humming along softly as Mike backed out of the parking lot. "My days are so lonely, my nights are so blue, I'm here and I'm lonely, I'm waiting for you..." 

He loved his old truck; he loved it even more when Mike drove it. Mike was so _calm,_ perfectly comfortable behind the wheel. Nothing like Bill's stiff posture and absolute, paranoid adherence to the traffic laws. Mike only used one casual hand on the wheel, the other elbow braced out the window. Bill closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. 

"Here we go," Mike said, a grin audible in his voice, as he always did when they reached the 'Welcome to Derry' sign. The boys both got a small thrill out of driving past it, both pretending, if just for a guilty moment, that they were leaving the cursed town for good this time. 

Maybe they were both imagining it, but it always felt like an invisible weight was being lifted off their shoulders as they entered deeper into Bangor territory. 

"Wow," Mike whistled in quiet awe. "Would you look at that." 

"What?" Bill opened his eyes, and saw the beginnings of a winter sunrise peeking over the mountains; brilliant gold and fringed with pink as it woke the night sky. "Oh, yeah." 

The gold bar of light dusted across Mike's sharp cheekbones, too, softening them and making his skin glow warm and dewy. His dark eyelashes stood out in long, individual relief in contrast. 

"Sure is beautiful, huh?" Mike asked, and Bill strangely felt his throat go dry. 

"B-beautiful," Bill agreed. The light pooled in Mike's dimple like a golden well, and Bill remembered touching that spot with his thumb a few days ago. He suddenly felt the bizarre urge to do so again. 

Mike glanced at him, pausing when he saw the expression on Bill's face. "Are you feeling alright, Big Bill?" he asked. "You look a little out of it." 

Bill _was_ feeling a little out of it, alright. "Oh, it's just my mom," he shrugged, sitting up. "She got pretty sick last night. Throwing up and stuff. Those crazy headaches, too." 

"Again?" Mike frowned. "That's been happening a lot lately. Maybe she should get that checked out." 

Bill shrugged. He agreed, of course. Finding his mother crying softly in pain on the bathroom floor, clutching her stomach while drenched in a cold sweat had been startling the first few times it happened, but he'd helped her up and excused it as some freak flu. But the frequency was increasing with no sign of stopping. In fact, he'd suggested the same thing Mike had a time or two, but she always brushed him off, ignoring his concerned advice. 

_Well, that's her response to everything else I say, too,_ he thought a little bitterly. _Why stop now?_

Mike switched hands on the wheel so he could squeeze Bill's knee reassuringly, then left his elbow on the armrest. Bill studied Mike's hands- good hands; Mike had always had good hands. Despite years off the farm, they were still lightly calloused, catching on the fabric of Bill's jeans. Long-fingered and dark brown on the backs, lighter on the palms. 

_I'm going to school to be a writer,_ he thought, _and I still don't have any words to give him._

It was a strange thought, melancholy in nature, and made little sense. He and Mike never ran out of things to talk about, and when they were quiet, it was a _good_ quiet. 

_Still though. I wish I had the words._

"What about..." Mike broached tentatively, and it snapped Bill from his reverie. Mike rarely sounded tentative about anything. He swallowed, Adams apple bobbing, and said, eyes firmly on the road, "What about your dad? His interview, and stuff." 

Oh. "He didn't like the Boston interview. But he's still looking for a new job." 

"Ah." 

_This_ silence was not a good one. It was the kind of silence that took the words right out of your throat and killed them before you could even open your mouth. 

"M-Mike-" Bill tried, and then swore. Riding close behind them, flashing blue-and-red cop's lights forced them to pull over. Mike's hand on the armrest clenched nervously, popping his knuckles with his thumb. 

"It's okay," Bill reassured under his breath as the crunching of approaching officer footsteps sounded through the open window. "You weren't doing anything wrong. It's probably a dead taillight or something." 

A horse-faced cop bent at the window, but not before pausing long enough standing straight that they couldn't miss the holstered gun he wore at his hip. He looked them over, then focused small, beady-suspicious eyes on Mike. "Hello boys. Do you know why I pulled you over?" 

Mike shook his head. "No, sir. Why is that?" 

Bill had never heard him use a voice like _that_ before: tight, restrained, anxious. He didn't like it at all. 

The cop frowned, leaned against the side of the pickup. "This your truck, boy?" 

"It's mine," Bill said, and smiled. "We're practicing for his drivers' test." 

"That so." The officer leaned further into the window, invading Mike's space. "Can I see some license and registration, _boy_?" 

When he said 'boy', it sounded a lot different than when Mrs. Hanlon said it. 

Mike dug his wallet from his schoolbag as Bill pulled his registration from the glove compartment. He threw in his own license too for good measure. 

The officer studied the documentation with a careful eye as though suspecting it all to be clever forgeries before reluctantly handing them back. 

"Where y'all going?" he asked. 

"School," Bill replied, because he didn't want to hear Mike talking in that awful voice again; it made his pulse spike with confusing anxiety. "U of B. We're actually running late..." 

"School, huh?" the officer quirked an eyebrow. " _Both_ of you?" He said this last bit to Mike, a parody of surprise in his voice. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Hm. I'll let you off with a warning, then, boys." 

"F-f-for _what?!_ " Bill exploded, and Mike shot him a furious _shut up, Billy!_ glare. 

The officer only grinned, tipped his hat, and strolled leisurely back to his squad car. "Drive careful." 

They waited for him to resume driving and get a good ways down the road before Mike too resumed their route to the university, both hands on the wheel this time. 

"What the f-f-f-f _uck_ was th-that all about?!" Bill demanded, honestly baffled out of his mind. 

Mike didn't answer. 

* * *

The strange mood lasted all day. By the time Bill finished his last class and went across the large, tree-lined campus in search of Mike, he was in quite the funk. He barely noticed a Sophomore by the name of Julie something-or-other trying to keep pace with his long legs until she called in frustration, "Jeez, Bill! You'd think I smelled bad or something." 

He looked down- man, she was short- and offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Julie." 

She frowned. "My name is Janet. We've worked on four projects together this semester, Bill!" 

_Shit._ One of those days, indeed. "R-right. I knew that. What's up, Janet?" 

She eased her irritated frown back and tried to smile again, pink lip gloss sticking a little to her front teeth. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm having a small get-together with some friends on Friday and wondered if you wanted to come?" She twirled a strand of blond hair around her finger, shifting her weight onto one hip. Though she tried to appear nonchalant, her eyes sparked with hope. 

A party, huh? "Could I bring a friend or two?" He asked. 

Irritation again. Man, he couldn't do anything right today. "Yeah, I guess." She forced a giggle. "Only if you bring booze, though." 

Well, it was only fair. "Sure, sounds great! Hey, I've gotta run. See you around!" 

He jogged off, grateful for a valid excuse to leave the conversation. He just hated feeling like people wanted something from him and being unable to identify or provide it; it made him feel guilty and anxious. She was probably lonely; wanted a friend. 

He found Mike in a small room- not in the campus library (surprise, surprise)- but next to it, talking earnestly to a young-looking professor with curly hair the color of sand, a strong tan, and very even, white teeth. 

"Yeah, dude!" the professor was saying enthusiastically, a chummy hand slung around Mike's shoulders. "Computers are totally the way of the future; your madre is _so right._ " 

Bill held back a snort. The guy looked like a total tool- who the hell wore Bermuda shorts and a shark-tooth necklace at the beginning of a _Maine winter?!_ He was going to give himself frostbite of the testicles. 

Bill stood back in the doorway, watching as they bent together over a little boxy computer and Mike showed the guy an indecipherable blue screen covered in tiny yellowish numbers. 

The professor's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "You did all this yourself? You _taught_ yourself how to do this?! Are you like, some whiz-kid or something?" 

_Whiz-kid._ Who the hell was this guy? Bill wondered if Mike was gonna give him the brush-off, and was truly startled when Mike instead gave him a bright Mike-smile, complete with dimple. "It's not that great," Mike shrugged modestly. "There's lots of mistakes--" 

"Dude." The man managed to make it both a descriptor, a chastisement, and a full sentence all on its own. He tightened his arm around Mike's neck, giving him a little shake. "You're brilliant. Take my class next semester, Mikey-boy; you'll probably be able to teach _me_ by next year." 

Bill suddenly _wished_ this guy would get frostbite of the testicles. _Mikey-boy?!_ Nobody called Mike that, not unless they were the bonafide, real-deal, Derry bred-and-raised Losers Club, not some surfer wannabe with a too-orange tan. Sure, it wasn't the most original of nicknames, but it was _theirs,_ damnit! 

"I'll see what I can do, what with my scholarship limitations and everything. Don't get your hopes up too high." 

"Oh, my hopes are way, way high." 

Bill snorted, and both men turned to face him. 

"Hey, Bill!" Mike grinned at him, stooped a little from the arm _still_ around his neck. "Jayce, this is Bill; he's my best childhood friend. Bill, this is Jayce. He teaches-" 

"Programming?" Bill guessed acerbicly. 

The professor beamed, clicked his fingers, and shot Bill a double finger-guns. "Got it in one, big guy. The old farts here don't think it's gonna go anywhere, but Mikey and I know an opportunity when we see one." 

_I bet you do._ "Th-that's great. Hey, can I steal Mike? We've actually really got to get going." 

Jayce unwound his slinky anaconda arms off Mike, but still clapped him on the shoulder as he bent, grabbed his bag, and made to leave. "Remember what I said, Mikey! Lets make this digital world rumble and turn it upside-down!" 

Mike laughed again. He was laughing a lot today. "I'll see what I can do. Bye, Jayce." 

"Catch you on the flip side!" 

"What's up with that guy?" Bill asked, voice heavy with mocking irony, as they made their way to the middle of the huge parking lot in their daily quest for the pickup. He waited for Mike to jump in, make a disparaging remark, but instead he only frowned at Bill. 

"What do you mean? Jayce is great." 

Oh... 

"I... _guess,_ " he agreed grudgingly, though it made him feel cranky. He tried to make light of his own mood. "Should I get my hair permed like that?" 

Mike snorted and swatted at his arm. "Don't you dare. You couldn't pull it off." 

"Really? I think I'd be dead sexy." The words just popped out of nowhere and hung, stupid as stupid, between them. Then Mike grinned, just barely holding back an affectionate snicker. 

"Sure, sure, Big Bill. Dead sexy." 

Mike didn't ask to do the driving this time, so Bill didn't offer, climbing into the drivers' seat himself instead. It was quite chilly, so Bill was quick to switch the heater on, the force of the blowing air almost drowning out Sam Phillips' husky voice from the radio. 

The sun was already setting, looking like a squashed tomato to the west. Damn winter, stealing all the daylight away. Bill opened his mouth to complain of just that, but Mike spoke first. 

"I get to watch a sunrise _and_ a sunset with Big Bill Denbrough? It's a blessed day indeed." 

And just like that, all of Bill's cantankerous feelings were just. Gone. Evaporated into nothing. It was hard to be irritable around Mike- he was just so naturally positive. Not abrasively so, but he had an inner light, warm and soft as a candle's. 

Sometimes Bill worried that his own natural moodiness would extinguish it. If that ever happened, he didn't think he'd be able to forgive himself. 

"Yeah," Bill agreed sincerely, looking at the sunset with new appreciation. "I'm pretty blessed, too. Want to grab something to eat at Bo's Diner with me?" 

The Dimple deepened with the force of the smile aimed his way. "You just read my mind." 

_Blessed, blessed, blessed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be TOO hard on Bill's dumbness, he's eighteen and kind of sheltered. He's trying.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

**"His heart was beating too fast, the tip of his cigarette jittering a tiny bit. He had stuttered. Mike had heard it."**

**\- Bill Denbrough, Stephen King's _IT_ **

* * *

Bill, Mike had noticed, even back in high school, rarely got carded when trying to buy booze. Mike was fairly certain that if he'd been so blatant about casually dropping cartons of beer on a counter, he'd get kicked out in an instant. It wasn't so much that he _looked_ older- Bill still only had to shave his face once a week or so- but that he had an aura about him that others subconsciously responded to. 

Maybe it was that he'd been dragged through the macroverse on the tongue of a cosmic horror. More likely it was just that he had a charming magnetism about him. 

Of course, being handsome, tall, and white were certainly cards in his favor, as well, even if he would never admit it. He shuffled about so uncomfortably when these basic facts were brought up, as though he'd like to apologize for it. It was a little like a zebra apologizing for being striped, in Mike's opinion, but Bill was silly about things like that sometimes. 

So, when Bill jokingly asked, "What's with that face?" in response to Mike's wry expression after walking from the liquor store with two full paper bags in hand, the library's page merely shrugged. 

"You're going to be cold, Big Bill," he pointed out, nodding towards Bill's light jacket over a short-sleeved shirt. 

"I already am," Bill admitted with a laugh and a shiver for emphasis as he hopped into the drivers' side of his truck. "H-help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope." He passed the clinking bags into Mike's lap and stuck his gloved hands in front of the truck's vents. 

Mike's smirk widened into a true smile at Bill's bad Princess Leia impersonation. "So uncivilized," he replied, attempting an Obi Wan voice. Bill's answering giggle was, frankly, _adorable_ and added to the mystery that anyone believed him to be over twenty-one. 

"We're such losers," he laughed, pulling onto the road. 

_"You_ might be," Mike agreed, which only set Bill's giggles off again. Bill threw his head back when he really got to laughing, his eyes crinkling into small, happy blue slits. 

_What was that Richie always used to say to Eddie?_ Mike mused. _'Cute, cute, cute!'_ The endearments had baffled him at the time but now, all these years later, he was at last beginning to understand.

"Do we have to stay long?" he asked, leaning his elbow against the door. It wasn't that he hated parties, but he was feeling tired and old again. It was hard to describe this feeling in a way that others would understand- his mother always just laughed and told him that he was to young to know what 'tired' really meant, but Mike thought he had an idea. It was a feeling in his bones that never went away, something a full nights' sleep or a triple-shot of espresso couldn't manage to reach. 

Bill wrinkled his nose, not liking the idea much either. "Not long," he promised. "It's just a favor for some girl at school. Let's just go, say hi, and leave." 

That sounded like a good plan to Mike. He wasn't at all surprised to hear that it was a girl. "Another one of your admirers?" he asked drily. 

As usual, Bill blinked in some surprise. "Hm? No... I never get more action than in your imagination, Hanlon. Why do you always th-think it's like that?" 

_Because I possess a pair of eyes and some cognitive reasoning skills._ "Just a feeling."

Someone should probably tell the poor girl that unless she had curves, an attitude, and fiery-red hair, Bill would never give her a second glance. Mike had watched Bill's blindness to girl's affection time and time again- harsh in its ignorance but never with any malice intended.

"Hey," Bill nudged him. "Maybe you'll meet someone. It's been a while since you and Amy broke up." Though his face was pleasant, there was a slight inflection on Amy's name. Bill had never liked her, which was odd; they were quite similar in personality. 

"Nah. I ain't lookin' for company, Big Bill." 

"Why not? I'd hate for you to just end up a curmudgeonly old librarian all by yourself." 

"Aw Bill. You know my only true loves are Mary Shelley, Jane Austin, and Harper Lee." 

"Your own papery little harem." 

They bantered comfortably back and forth as Bill followed his own messily hand-written directions (Mike had to squint at the napkin himself and make out Bill's handwriting when Bill himself couldn't read what he'd wrote) until at last they arrived at a rather large house on a hilltop; modern in style with a lot of glass and lights. 

"I thought you said it was a _little_ get-together," Mike pointed out, looking at the dozens of cars on the lot. 

"Y-yeah," Bill frowned. "Unless we have very different definitions of 'little'..."

Not for the first time that night, Mike longed for home. Still, he climbed from the truck when Bill parked, and stretched, bag of bottles heavy in his hand. His breath puffed in white clouds from his mouth and nose from the chill in the air and, when he tilted his head back, he saw a virtual galaxy of stars above him. "Wow," he remarked, startled by the beauty. 

Bill craned his head back to see what had gotten Mike's attention. "Oh," he said, some surprise in his voice. "G-guess we're farther out of city limits than I thought." 

Standing together in the wide, circular driveway with Bill, looking at the stars, with faint party music and chatter pulsing through the walls, Mike felt a little otherworldly; distanced from time. Bill leaned into his side, and Mike relaxed a little from the closeness. 

Then Bill shivered, teeth chattering, as the chill caught up to him. 

"Oh, jeez," Mike sighed. "I _told_ you that you'd be cold in that outfit. Come on..." He took Bill by the arm and ushered him into the house, where the music pulsed stronger; all top-40 hits from the year before. 

It became apparent almost immediately that this was not Bill and Mike's crowd. People clustered everywhere inside the shiny new house, talking animatedly- the more intoxicated they were, the louder. Music pounded so loudly from wall-mounted speakers that Mike's ears hurt. A couple by the door kissed so frantically that Mike wondered, with some alarm, whether they were actively trying to climb into one another's mouths. 

In the main area, furniture had been hastily shoved to the side to make room for "dancing," and the smell of pot was thick in the air. When the two young men picked their way unnoticed to the kitchen and set the booze on the table, it became immediately lost in the dozens of other, identical bottles and bags. 

"I'm sorry," Bill said, pressing close to Mike's side so he could speak directly into his ear- otherwise he wouldn't have been heard at all. "Let me just find Janet and go." 

It reminded Mike a lot of the parties he'd been expected to attend in high school, simply because he was on the football team. He'd gone to a few, but he always dragged one or more Losers with him (generally Bev or Richie) and used them as a shield to hide himself from the brunt of overwhelming interaction. He resisted the urge to cling to Bill's arm now. 

_Don't be such a baby,_ he reminded himself. _It's not that bad. You've been through worse. They won't eat you._

He wasn't the only black person at the party- there were a few girls as tall as models in their platform wedges, dancing to the music with naval piercings glinting invitingly between their cargo pants and tank tops- but they were in the minority. As per usual when it came to Derry. And, if he were to compare his outfit with theirs, he knew he'd be able to apply some serious dollar signs to their names. Being poor _and_ black in Derry was something that drew quite a few stares in a crowd such as this. 

He scoured the crowd for the small description of Janet he'd managed to wrangle out of Bill. It wasn't that he saw _no_ short blonde girls, but that he saw too many. They were everywhere. 

Bill was greeted by name multiple times, and he responded enthusiastically enough. "This is my best friend Mike," he introduced each time. Replies were polite, but glassy eyes slipped over him once, then returned back to Bill. Growing more uncomfortable by the second, Mike helped himself to a beer, then another, feeling increasingly like Bill's mute, annoying shadow; a ball and chain he forced himself to drag around based on some old, childhood promise. 

"Janet?" a lanky boy wearing jeans that cost more than Mike made in a single paycheck asked, eyes unfocused from something more than alcohol. "I think I saw her outside by the pool, man. Good luck." 

Mike couldn't believe anyone would want to be outside in this weather, but sure enough, through the patio doors there was a bonfire in a pit that a handful of people circled lazily in white plastic pool chairs, staring into the crackling flames as though hypnotized. As they drew closer, the distinct, skunky scent of pot explained the situation further. 

"J-J-Janet," Bill, shivering, waved at a girl curled, catlike, in a chair between two other nigh-identical blondes. She looked up, eyes unfocused, and then her face split into a wide beam. 

"Hey, _Bill!_ " she exclaimed, struggling to stand from between her companions. She hurried over to them and, standing on tip-toe, kissed Bill once on each cheek, leaving a glittery smear of gloss behind as though marking him with war paint. "I was just telling everyone all about you!" She giggled, sounding shrill and, Mike noted, not entirely happy. 

"All g-good things, I hope?" Bill smiled politely. Bill's polite smiles were nice, but had nothing on the glory of his true, uncontrollable beams that took up his entire face and made him shine like the sun. "Listen, Janet, I'd love to stay, but-" 

"Oh no, no, please don't go!" she protested, crystal-blue eyes huge in her small face. Her hands fumbled for Bill's arm. "Not yet, just... sit a minute?" 

There was only one chair remaining. With a sigh, Bill sat. Mike hesitated, but a single pleading look from Bill had him sliding onto it as well. Telling Bill 'no' was never his specialty. Because Bill was skinny, they managed to both fit, but only just.

A boy to his left passed a smoldering joint to Mike. Pot was never his drug of choice- it made him too anxious- so he passed it along to Bill and cracked into his third beer. His front was already too warm from the fire; his back, too cold. The hazy air brought with it a lightheadedness, so he closed his eyes, only half-listening to the chatter around him, until Bill nudged him into alertness. 

"Jimmy asked you something," he mumbled. Mike glanced around until he saw a pair of eager, bright eyes focused on him. 

"Hi," he said uncertainly, unused to attention after a night of being ignored. 

"Hanlon, right?" 'Jimmy', a weedy-looking Freshman, clarified. "Number thirteen; Fullback?" 

Oh. Football. Mike could talk football. 

After the ice was broken, several other people stepped in to engage Mike in conversation. He relaxed slightly, mood lifted, as, squashed next to him, Bill slowly became stoned. Janet and her giggling girlfriends were peppering him with increasingly suggestive questions, and Mike made a mental note to rescue him as soon as there was a break in the conversation. 

When the weed ran out, people started heading back inside to join the party. There were now enough chairs to have his own, but Mike stayed with Bill because the taller man was meticulously tugging at a thread in his denim jacket; a sure sign that he was nervous. And still Janet prattled. 

"- and you're just so _smart,_ Billy- do you mind if I call you Billy?- when you said that writing and reading should be for enjoyment and analyzing things to death just about killed the purpose; I thought the professor was going to explode-- and if anyone else had said that, it would have sounded, I don't know, _stupid,_ but your writing is so good; so, _so_ good, so like. Everyone knows you're right. And..." 

Something about this girl was setting off Mike's warning bells. She was hooking on an edge of desperation, her eyes wide and manic and her face very flushed. Maybe she was having a bad high, too. He at last broke off his conversation with Jimmy. 

"Hey, Janet? Are you okay? Maybe you should have some water--" 

"I don't need any _fucking_ water, okay, charity case?!" 

The open hostility from a near-stranger had Mike reeling. "Whoa..." 

Bill was sitting up in an instant, blue eyes narrowed. "Th-the fuck did you call him?" he asked, voice suddenly sharp despite all he'd smoked. 

Janet waved the question off, ignoring the startled looks her friends were shooting her. "The _point_ is, Billy... I just. When are you going to ask me out?! I keep waiting and waiting and-" 

"Um." Bill was openly pissed off now. He swung his legs off the bench, reaching for Mike. "Try 'never'? G-God, you've always been a clingy bitch, but-" 

Janet's animated face froze, going quite pale; mouth dropping open. She sputtered. Bill ignored her. 

"Lets go home," Bill said, offering Mike a hand. "I'm sorry I dragged you here wuh-with these assholes, Mikey; I owe you one." 

Mike set his beer down, took Bill's hand, and allowed Bill to tow him to his feet, glancing sympathetically at Janet. Whatever was going on with her, he hoped she worked it out and felt better soon. 

She recovered her voice by the time they were nearly at the patio door, Bill's hand having slipped out of Mike's, but still resting on his elbow. Mike heard the crash as she threw down her own beer bottle. " _Fuck_ you, Bill Denbrough!" she screamed, hands balled into fists at her side, tears shining in her eyes. And then she called Mike something he hadn't been called in quite a while, something that made him sigh deeply and think, fleetingly, of Henry Bowers. 

Bill spun on his heel so abruptly that Mike nearly lost his balance. For one, wild moment, he thought Bill might march over to her and _hit_ her- but that was silly; Bill wasn't the girl-hitting type. He opened his mouth to retort. Before he could say something they'd both regret, Mike put a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention back. 

"Just let it go, Big Bill," he said softly. It wasn't as though he hadn't heard the slur a thousand times before, or that Janet's opinion particularly mattered to him- though it did sting. "I want to go home." 

Bill looked conflicted for a moment, but concern for Mike won out. He sagged, then flung a protective arm over Mike's shoulders and shot one last poisonous glare Janet's way before leading him off the premises. 

"Yeah, get out of here," Janet called after them, tears audible in her voice now. "You and your homo boyfriend. I get it. Nobody's good enough for _Denbrough._ " 

Mike wondered if either of them was sober enough to drive as they made their way back through the large house and out the front, twin surges of relief at the sight of the beloved truck, so bulky and scruffy and out of place among the polished, candy-colored little cars. When Bill's hands shook fumbling his keys, Mike gently took them from him and unlocked the doors, turning on the ignition- and thus, the heaters- as both settled inside. 

It was uncomfortably quiet until, leaning across Bill's lap, Mike dug around in the glove compartment until he found an old mixed tape and slotted it into place. It was a blessed relief compared to the tinny pop they'd been subjected to. 

At last, Bill released a tense breath. "G-g-God, Mikey," he stuttered out. "I am sorry-" 

"Quit apologizing," Mike retorted. "I don't see how it's your fault what other people say." 

"Yeah, but," Bill scritched the back of his neck. "Just. Fuck. We sh-should have left when we saw what it was like. That's just not-" 

"Our crowd," Mike finished glumly. As though they even _had_ a crowd anymore. It was just the two of them hating the town and its music and people and parties and- 

"I wish we could run away," Bill sighed, pressed his cheek to the window. "Just go pick your mom up from work right now and drive straight to Bangor." 

Mike briefly entertained the fantasy. If he and Bill dropped out of school and worked full-time, the three of them might be able to afford the rent for some dinky little place... 

But. 

"One of us needs to stay here," Mike reminded him. "One of us needs to remember. We promised." 

They had the thin, white scars on their palms to prove it. 

To leave was to let It win, to continue It's blood-soaked reign of terror for time and eternity, condemning countless children to death, just like little Georgie Denbrough. 

The weighty responsibility of destiny rested heavy on Mike's shoulders without his six best friends there to help him hold it up.

Bill grit his teeth, punched down hard on the armrest, but said nothing more. 

_I'm gonna lose him for sure,_ Mike thought, with acute, heart-breaking certainty. _Oh, Bill..._

As though hearing his thoughts, Bill rolled his head on the passenger seat's headrest until he was looking directly into Mike's eyes. A twin echo of Mike's own sadness was reflected right back at him, doubling the loneliness. 

He was better prepared, this time, when Bill gently cupped Mike's face in his hand, thumb finding his dimple as though it were meant to fit there. Mike closed his eyes and turned into Bill's hand, brought his own hand up to squeeze Bill's wrist. 

"Big Bill-" he began. He meant to ask something along the lines of, _'what are we gonna do now'?_ but he ended up not asking that question at all. Because Bill leaned in- Mike sensed it, heard the creak of his chair as he shifted his weight, felt warm breath bathe his face as Bill came closer- but his brain wasn't processing what his senses were telling him until lips pressed softly onto his. 

For a brief, heart-stuttering moment, Mike felt the world tilt on its axis and he feared he might fall off the edge completely, but then it was alright because Big Bill was right there, holding onto him. Big Bill would _never_ let Mike fall. 

Once he accepted this, once he tentatively returned Bill's kiss, it was like he was a blind man seeing color for the first time. It was every season upon him at once; spring's renewal and winter's calm; autumn's forgiveness and summer's heat. 

Then Mike's brain caught up with the hazy, swirling sensation of _feelings,_ and he was harshly shoving Bill off of him with all of his strength, scrambling away from him until the truck's door handle pressed into his spine. 

"What the _hell,_ Bill?!" he demanded, naked terror etched in every part of his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started making a playlist for this fic [[HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7evTsECtW_A&list=PL4bXBmEi4b6YkBdw8miHnpoekP4swTQaQ)] - if you have any song suggestions for it, let me know.


End file.
